There was a scene from last week's Glee season finale, where Will enters the room where the New Directions kids are, carrying seven boxes of pizza. "Real New York pizza," he claims, still driving home the fact that we are in New York, and not in Lima, Ohio (or, technically, a sound stage in Los Angeles).

"Ray's Pizza. Nice."

That's Jeany, my currently-on-hiatus friend from New York. She lives in an apartment in Times Square, which means she's seen (or at least was capable of seeing) the Glee cast shoot their admittedly patronizing musical number in the city.

"Real NYC pizza. Hah. Not."

I could blame it on her New York upbringing. After all, everybody who lives in New York pretty much frowns on anybody who lives outside its boundaries. And she lives in Manhattan, so she pretty much frowns on anybody who lives beyond the Hudson River, as well as that other river whose name I'm too lazy to search. But then again, she lives in New York City.

"Okay," I answered. "Define real NYC pizza."

"Thin crust, good mozzarella, just a little bit of charcoal. Brick oven is my fave."

I recalled that story while waiting for my order two days back at Yellow Cab. You look around the store, with photos of the New York skyline and names of relatively obscure (for the uneducated) landmarks in the city. And then there's the name. Yellow Cab. Supposed to remind you of the taxis that go around the city. Ironic since their billboards say "if you want a pizza, call a cab!" but the image beside it is of a guy in a scooter delivering pizza.

Of course, the idea is that their pizza is supposed to be New York-style pizza. But it doesn't have a thin crust, and they definitely don't bake it in a brick oven - that'd be expensive. Authentic? Close-enough imitation, perhaps - and I don't know how NYC pizza tastes like.

There's this other store, Brooklyn Pizza, that trades on the we-serve-New-York-style-pies idea as well. Only it's not on a thin crust, and it's chewy. And I'm not sure if I really taste a hint of charcoal, or industrial oven.

Sure, you'll say, it's not New York pizza but New York-style pizza, adapted to suit Filipino tastes, because eating crackers topped with mozzarella and pepperoni is weird even if Shakey's is doing well here. Now, that wasn't New York-style, but it had thin crust, and it used to serve beer until it wimped out to become a family restaurant. Well, it worked, because the place is always full with reuniting families, or grandparents celebrating their birthdays with the entire clan.

The same goes for Yellow Cab, but its crowd is different. You know, upper class families that don't give a damn whether they're eating out wearing their pajamas. The sort that always speak English. Yuppies who supposedly live the fast life. Students who cannot tolerate fast food. I'm not exactly any of those, but I like the food, and when I eat there it feels like I can speak English with a perfect American accent, without fumbling a single word. (Or maybe it's because I'm at the Alabang branch. The other branches, especially those located in more mass-friendly places, are empty.)

They are selling New York as an illusion. Want to feel successful? Want to feel like a hot-shot financial type? Want to feel like a happy-go-lucky Williamsburg hipster? Want some touch of grit on the side? Why not eat here? You know you cannot be an actual hot-shot financial type or an actual happy-go-lucky Williamsburg hipster. You're not born in the right place. You're not supposed to dream. So we'll just ease you into your failed ambitions, yes? For an hour you're not a wimp.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. Yes, I definitely am.

I ordered a 14-inch four-cheese pizza and two Charlie Chans. They said it'd take twenty minutes. I was seated there for forty. The order finally arrived, and I stood up to the counter, peeved. I thought of telling off the staff for being so slow on a Sunday. They failed. Maybe I could get an extra calzone.

"Here's your order, sir."

"Salamat," I said under my breath. I wimped out.

I had this marvelous idea for a photo essay back in college: the life of a Luneta photographer. They still do it the old way: with film SLRs around their necks, they'd ply their wares around the park, hoping that a visitor would want to have their time in the park documented for posterity. But with digital cameras (and the instant photography experts that come with it) becoming more ubiquitous, their way of life is pretty much facing a dead end.

Imagine: me photographing these photographers, using an SLR loaded with black and white film, and developing it myself at our very own dark room. Genius, right? In hindsight, I flubbed that photo essay - I still went to Luneta to take photographs, and even got to talk to some of them, but I could've done a few things better. Maybe make it more cohesive, maybe follow one photographer for one whole day. I was just too lazy to make it right.

I remembered that story yesterday, when a photographer offered to take photos of me and my cousins. We were in a restaurant in Binondo, celebrating my grandfather's birthday in a different way than usual. We'd spend the weekend on a beach, usually, but this time around my grandfather wanted to invite some friends along. We settled for lunch.

I was confused. I thought he was one of my grandfather's friends. So we obliged, and the next thing we know, we had to fork fifty bucks per photograph. We reserved four tables in the restaurant, and the other three tables said no. I guess we were too hungry to even think of what's actually happening. Our table was, after all, made up of dining room warriors. We treated the lazy daisy as if it was a hindrance.

There are only a few places in Manila where these photographers ply their trade. Either that, or I haven't been around Manila. But the city I know from my college years is one populated by digital cameras and scalpers, and not old men carrying vintage cameras for a living. It strikes me how different two places can be. Taft Avenue, for one, is chaotic, judging from the frequency of restaurants opening to take the place of failed ones. It's modern (look up, there's the LRT) but it's behind the times (look up, there's the LRT). Chinatown, on the other hand, is a more complicated proposition: smaller roads, Chinese signs, a different atmosphere. And you'll have to remember that this was the center of business before Makati came along.

Earlier that day I admitted I wanted to return to Hong Kong. Singapore, I appreciated, but Hong Kong, I didn't. "Nagmamadali kasi tayo," my mom answered, a succinct response to why I don't have that many memories of the Chinese city. And then we'd reach Binondo and walk from our parking space along the sidewalks of Ongpin to the restaurant, and I'd say, "mukha siyang Hong Kong."

I pretty much took advantage. The food was delicious - the President's here is still something compared to the "express" branches popping up in malls, not to mention the charm that comes with the building. I think the restaurant is located in an old theater or something. The stuffed chicken was my favorite - it's overwhelmingly big, yes, and it's really stuffed: sticky rice, pork asado, vegetables, calories of rich death coming a day after what idiots in my faith call Judgment Day. When I'm in a foreign country I make it a point to take in the sights and the food, and this, an hour's drive from my home, is no exception.

And then the crabs arrived. The lunch was really festive, and it eventually overwhelmed the warriors in my table, but I was feeling a bit impulsive. I'll eat crab, I said. Now, I don't usually eat crab - but I eat crablets, and I eat crab meat omelettes, and I eat fake crab sticks. Grown crabs in their shells? I find it cumbersome. Also, when I was a kid, during one of those summer vacations, I ate a crab and ended up developing rashes all over. Since then I figured I was allergic to crab - although that's not true, I guess. My mom says I got a rash from playing under the old mango tree that used to be in our backyard.

I took one of the crab's claws and dug through the shell to eat the meat. It was sweet. So that's what they mean when they talk about a sweet crab, I thought. And then I felt dizzy. I wasn't eating the fatty parts, but the smell made me want to throw up. And then I realized why I don't bother with whole crabs.

I just finished watching the last two episodes of the second series of Being Human. The idea of Annie, George and Mitchell being torn apart by so many things gets me riled up.

I have mood swings, and I tend to get too emotional. I watch certain films and, in several occasions, I end up crying, and screaming at the screen, yelling invectives at whatever's happening. "Putang ina! Dapat yang mangyari sa'yo, punyetang gago ka!" I do this with the news too, more often. I get too emotional. My parents hate me for that. I can only yell at the screen and not at their face, they'd say. More or less they hate it when I shout. You're not allowed to get angry.

You're not allowed to get angry, because it tears people apart, and God knows what the consequences are. God knows why I decided I hated my last "best friend", why I decided to unfollow her on Twitter despite a bad Internet connection, which meant the cut wasn't as clean as it should. But I was angry. And I hated her. I hated her for not being there anymore. But I did not want to lose her. I couldn't afford to lose her. There are only a few people on my side now. Why can't I just fucking swallow my pride?

But no. You're also not allowed to bottle your feelings up, because everything builds up and it will tear people apart, and God knows what the consequences are. Pretend everything's all right. Everything's all right now. And it does feel that way. And then it doesn't.

You're not allowed to lie, but you're not allowed to tell every truth you know either.

You're not allowed to discriminate, but you're not allowed to trust everyone either.

You're not allowed to do something, but you're not allowed to do nothing either.

Screaming, yelling at the screen, throwing all those cuss words? You're not supposed to do that. You cannot be enraged. You cannot be passionate. It's just a fucking screen. It's just a scenario unfolding in front of you. And you very well know that when you do that, you feel empty inside, you feel guilty, you feel terrible, because you blew your composure. But what are you supposed to do? Keep quiet? Keep up appearances? Humanity doesn't know what it wants. It prefers one thing, and then it prefers another, and it flitters between options depending on the situation. We cannot be consistent. You say it's adaptable: I say it's confusing, especially when you deem one option to be the best option and everybody else says it isn't.

Surely you found yourself overwhelmed by everything, to the point that you just want to break down in tears? And then you remember that you cannot cry, that you are not supposed to cry?

I happen to have no one by my side anymore. It was necessary. And you will say I fucked up my only chance at salvation.

The last time I declared a blogging hiatus was a good six years ago. Despite the fact that I can't find that particular blog entry, I'm pretty certain that it happened. It was midterms, and I was blogging about it at the Cybernook, back when it wasn't a coffee shop yet. I told myself I needed the time to study. Looking back, it's a ridiculous idea, since I blogged a day later.

It's been more than two weeks since I last blogged. At this point it shouldn't be something to worry about. Does anybody still blog, even? We're busy. We'd rather tweet. Nobody reads this thing anymore. And yet I remember what Sars pointed out two years ago: I write both for a living and for recreation. This thing's continued existence is because it has to be here. But this blog has been idle for extended periods lately. Five entries per month, maximum, separated by weeks, and in rare spurts of inspiration, days.

That's the downside of being stuck at home. You get insecure. You read about your friends going out with their friends. You want to talk to your friends but you run out of topics, or the reasons to even call each other friends. You find yourself with nothing to do during the weekends. Your life revolves around the same four walls. Nothing strikes you as unusual anymore. There are no stories left to tell. Thus, this.

The problem is, I promised myself two things: that I won' abandon this blog, and that I'd write at least three entries a month. I know, right? Impossibly shallow.

I don't like having to strain hard to look to inspiration. It never feels comfortable, never natural. But I'm no longer in a position when things come to me. No more bitches in the back row. No more friends in air quotes. No more reason to complain about things, inevitably leading to some pilosophical longing. And the. I'd remember what Issa told me: "Kaya hindi na ako nag-a-iPod, eh."

I was at the grocery yesterday. I recently realize that pushing a cart yourself, looking for things yourself - it's liberating. I also realized that I love the freezer sections, not because of the temperatures, but because of what you'll find there. Slightly posh cheeses. Redundant chicken breast fillets. Puréed shrimp heads. Now that's a novel idea. What would you need it for? Maybe I could devote a whole blog entry to it? It's fascinating, but it's forced. Minutiae is never my thing, at least right now.

I head to a Chinese restaurant to buy what the Brits call "takeaway".

"Dalawang pansit guisado."

"Okay, sir. Upo ka muna."

Seated on a table beside me was an elderly Chinese man, I think, and his half-Spanish wife, I think. There's a toddler. There's a maid. And, across them, the elderly couple's daughter, or so I think. She looks Chinese. Her husband looks raggedy. I describe in uncertain detail because I didn't have an iPod: it died along the way.

"I've never really had food here," the daughter said. "I just had, you know those rice toppings? What they have here, you know, those noodles? And they have those spare ribs..."

"I like that," her mother interrupted.

"And they have this kind of fried rice. I don't know what it is, but it has some kind of gravy on top."

I can't tell if she's being dismissive or if she's actually complimenting the place. She sounds like she's sneering, what with her incessant English (and everybody else speaking Filipino) and that air that says I know this place more than you - you know, some kind of snobbish socialite who looks down on everybody. Speaking of, seated in another table is a lower class family, or so I think, judging from the many photographs of inane moments they took. Photographs of softdrink cans! Actual photographs! Digital camera! And then my order came. I can't make anything out of that.